The morning sun bathed the city in golden hues, its rays stretching across the rooftops and shimmering against the metal pipes of the towering steam factories. The sky, once blanketed in the darkness of night, now carried the promise of a new day, but the city beneath it was far from calm.
The rhythmic chirp of birds mixed with the hiss of steam valves and the clank of machinery, creating a discordant melody that signaled the city''s awakening. Streets swelled with movement—workers stepping out of their homes, street vendors setting up their stalls, carriages rolling over uneven cobblestone roads.
Then, a shift in the air.
The first newspaper vendor shouted, his voice rising above the city''s morning hum. "Breaking news! The Ashcrofts under attack! Master Victor Ashcroft shot on his way home!"
People stopped in their tracks. Eyes darted toward the newspaper stands, hands scrambling for copies.
Black-and-white images stared back at them—Victor Ashcroft''s stern face, his piercing gaze captured in ink. Below it, another face—his adopted son, Silas Ashcroft.
"The Ashcrofts are being targeted!" Another vendor cried. "First the boy, now the master! Who''s behind this?!"
Within moments, the story spread like wildfire. Conversations ignited in every district.
In the northern part of the city, outside the Ashport Police Station, a tall young man sat on a worn-out wooden bench, the newspaper trembling in his grip. His sharp blue eyes widened as they landed on the image of Silas.
A name escaped his lips. "Elias…?"
His breath hitched. His fingers clenched the paper tighter.
This man was Felix, once an orphan, once a friend of Elias, the boy who should have been dead.
But there he was, in the ink of the morning press, alive.
"How… how is this possible?" Felix murmured. His mind spun, drowning in memories. The Elias he knew had been buried, lost to the past. Yet the man in the photograph—Silas Ashcroft—bore the same face.
Something inside him ached. Regret? Guilt? He wasn''t sure.
He swallowed hard and turned his gaze toward the busy street. "I need to find out the truth."
---
Across the city, in the shadows of Mash Steel and Prosthetics Company, a figure strode through the industrial fog, the newspaper gripped tightly in his hand. His dark coat billowed behind him as his boots struck the pavement with force.
He read the headline once more, his jaw tightening.
Then, suddenly— BAM!
His fist slammed into the brick wall beside him.
"How can you still be alive, Victor?" he seethed, his voice barely above a whisper but thick with rage. His knuckles turned white against the paper.
The city''s whispers had reached him. And now, the game was truly beginning.
---
Meanwhile, in a modest tavern on the northern side of the city, barmaids weaved through tables, balancing trays of cheap ale and steaming plates of food. The air reeked of smoke and sweat, mingling with the murmurs of morning patrons.
At one table, a group of men spoke in hushed but eager voices.
"The Ashcrofts were attacked again?"
"Serves them right, that family has had power for too long."
"But who''d dare go after them?"
As their voices blurred into the background, a young waitress stood frozen near the bar.
A single glance at the newspaper in her hands had drained the color from her face.
Her delicate fingers trembled as they traced the inked image of Silas Ashcroft. Her wide, gray eyes filled with something close to horror.
No.
No, this wasn''t possible.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The boy in the picture—Silas Ashcroft—was the same boy she had killed with her own hands.
Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear the bar owner''s bark.
"Mira! Table four! Stop standing around and get to work!"
She jolted, her grip tightening on the newspaper. "Yes," she mumbled, forcing herself to move.
But her mind was elsewhere.
"Should I tell Jonas?" she thought.
No. Jonas would have already seen the papers.
But that meant… that meant everything was about to change.
---
Ashport Central Hospital
Victor Ashcroft sat propped up in his hospital bed, rubbing his temple as his eyes flicked over the morning edition of the newspaper. The deep furrow in his brow spoke volumes.
"Who leaked the news?" he muttered under his breath.
The knock on his door was barely necessary before Edgar stepped inside.
"Sir?"
Victor lifted the newspaper. "How bad is it?"
Edgar''s face was grim. "The city is in chaos. Everyone is talking about the attack." He hesitated. "We tried to silence the media, but it spread too fast. It was beyond our control. My apologies."
Victor exhaled through his nose, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Silence hung between them before he finally spoke again.
"How''s Silas doing?"
Edgar hesitated. "I haven''t returned home since the incident."
Victor''s eyes darkened. "Go. Now."
Edgar''s brows knit together. "But sir, your safety—"
Victor cut him off. "Silas is hot-tempered. If he reads this, he will not sit still. He will start looking, and he has no sense of danger."
Edgar clenched his jaw. "Understood."
As he turned to leave, Victor''s voice stopped him.
"First, check if he has seen the newspaper. If he hasn''t, make sure he doesn''t. If he already has…" Victor exhaled. "Don''t let him do anything reckless. If he insists, then either go with him or keep an eye on him from the shadows."
Edgar cast a glance over his shoulder. "Understood, sir."
As the door closed behind him, Victor sat in silence, gripping the newspaper so tightly the edges crumpled.
Damn it.
They''re already on the move.
His eyes burned as he stared at the inked words, his mind racing.
"Whoever you are… whoever your boss is… you''ve made your move."
"And now it''s my turn."
He set the newspaper down, his expression turning to steel.
"I will find you."
"And I will put an end to you."
---
The City Awakens to War
The news had spread. The city had spoken.
Some pitied the Ashcrofts. Some cheered their downfall.
Some whispered in fear. Others watched with anticipation.
But one thing was certain—
The attack had not just struck at Victor Ashcroft.
It had sent a message.
And the battle was only just beginning.
---
Recently in Ashcroft Estate
The early morning light filtered through the grand windows of the Ashcroft estate, casting golden rays over the corridors and rooms. The heavy tension that had settled over the house the night before still lingered, filling the air with unspoken words and quiet regrets.
Silas sat on his bed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, deep in thought. His mind replayed the recent events—the attack on him, the ambush on Victor. He knew that the Ashcrofts had enemies; a family of their status and wealth would always attract those lurking in the shadows. But something didn''t add up.
"Why now?"
For decades, the Ashcrofts had ruled in their sphere of influence, yet there had been no such direct attacks. If there had been threats before, he had not been made aware of them.
"This isn''t just random violence… Someone is making their move."
Yet, without any clear trail, all he had were theories. And theories weren''t enough to stop bullets.
---
Meanwhile, on the balcony of her room, Clara leaned against the railing, resting her chin on her arms as she gazed over the city. Her mind wasn''t on the bustling streets below, nor on the mechanical sparrow flitting about in the morning sun. It was on the boy she had hurt the night before.
Silas.
The words she had thrown at him echoed in her head, cruel and thoughtless.
"You don''t have parents—how would you know the pain?"
She clenched her fists.
She had been angry, overwhelmed with fear and frustration after discovering the truth about her father''s injury. But that was no excuse. She had crossed a line.
And yet, she couldn''t find the courage to face Silas and apologize.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching her door.
Knock, knock.
"Clara?"
She turned her head slightly. "Come in, Mother."
Selena stepped inside, her sharp eyes softening as she took in her daughter''s troubled expression. She sat beside Clara on the balcony and wrapped an arm around her.
"Clara," she said gently, "you should apologize to Silas."
"I know…" Clara murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "But… I don''t have the courage to face him."
Selena sighed. "You know he won''t hold it against you. Silas is a good person—he''ll accept your apology right away."
Clara lowered her head. "But what I said was horrible…"
Selena inhaled deeply before speaking. "Yes, it was. You said he doesn''t have parents, but don''t you realize how harsh his life was before? He grew up without love, without protection. He was weak, bullied, alone. Do you think he doesn''t know pain? He has known it all his life."
Clara bit her lip, guilt washing over her.
Selena continued, her voice firm but not unkind. "And you were wrong, Clara. Silas does have parents now. Victor and I—we chose him as our son. And you, you are his sister. When you said that to him, it was as if you denied his place in this family."
She sighed. "He hasn''t left his room since last night. Maybe your words are bothering him more than you think."
Clara swallowed hard, her chest tightening. "Do you think… he''ll accept my apology?"
Selena smiled, brushing a strand of Clara''s hair behind her ear. "Of course. He''s your brother, Clara. Brothers love their sisters."
Taking a deep breath, Clara steeled herself. "Okay. I''ll go."
---
Clara''s heart pounded as she walked down the hallway.
She had never felt this nervous before—not during exams, not during social events, not even when facing their strict tutors. But now, standing in front of Silas''s door, her hands were cold, and her throat felt dry.
She exhaled, gathering her courage, and lifted her hand to knock.
Knock, knock.
Before she could say anything, Silas''s voice came from inside.
"Come in, Clara. I know you''re there."
She blinked in surprise. How did he—?
Pushing the door open, she stepped inside hesitantly. Silas was sitting on his bed, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
He gestured to the edge of the bed. "Come, sit."
Clara sat down slowly, gripping her skirt. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Silas cut her off.
"I''m not sad," he said calmly. "I don''t hold anything against you. I know you didn''t mean it that way, so don''t stress over it."
Clara''s mouth fell open slightly. She had expected some resistance, maybe even some coldness—but he had already forgiven her before she could even say the words.
Her eyes stung, and before she knew it, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him.
"I''m sorry!" she cried, her voice cracking. "I''m really, really sorry!"
Silas stiffened for a moment before letting out a small sigh. "You''re squeezing me too hard, you know? I might actually die at this rate."
Clara sniffled, then pulled back just enough to glare at him. "You dumbass! If you weren''t sad, why didn''t you come and tell me that yourself?"
Silas smirked. "I have my own pride, you know."
Clara pouted. "Hmph."
Silas chuckled. "Alright, enough drama. Let''s get out of this heavy mood. Remember that tailor shop we visited? I gave my measurements that day, and my suits should be ready now. Let''s go pick them up."
Clara wiped her eyes and smiled. "Okay! Just tell me when you''re ready to go."
Silas nodded. "Deal."
---
Sometime later, Silas sat alone in the study when one of the estate guards entered, handing him the morning newspaper.
Silas unfolded it, his eyes quickly scanning the front page.
"Ashcrofts Under Siege! Who is Targeting the Esteemed Family?"
His expression darkened slightly.
But then, something else caught his attention.
There was no symbol this time.
He flipped through the pages, double-checking.
The last time a headline about the Ashcrofts had appeared, a strange coded symbol had been hidden near the title—a message left by Someone.
But today… there was nothing.
His grip on the paper tightened.
"They made sure to leave a mark last time… why not now?"
His mind raced through the possibilities.
Either they had nothing to do with this attack on Victor, or…
They wanted him to think they weren''t involved.
His eyes flickered with suspicion as he set the paper down.
One thing was certain—this wasn''t over.
And he needed to be ready.
—